Cost
by fallenleeves
Summary: What is the real cost of letting go and learning to feel anew? Shepard and Garrus reflect on one another as they approach the singular understanding that the cost is worth the gain. Some ME2 spoilers, and rated for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_This is the first Mass Effect fic I'm publishing. To avoid confusion, Shepard was earth born and a sole survivor (so you understand what she's referring to as she thinks), and this fic takes place a few days after Horizon. Best viewed at 3/4. Quotes in the beginning are from Trading Yesterday, seeing as they seem to fit. Anyways, please enjoy. This will be one of several installments under this title. ~_

* * *

_"Shadow days come to haunt me here  
To wrap around me  
Dark and cold to hide the sunlight from my eyes_

_I can not see beyond these clouds surrounding  
I will not forget that this is not the end"_

Chapter 1.

There was always someone who needed saving.  
Some person, child, soldier, slave, orphan – a lost child crying silent tears in a back alleyway as slavers pilfer every ounce of humanity left – a broken body storing images of shattered picture frames and scattered clothes as a twisted testament of what once was.

What was the point?

What reason was there to seek out injustice?

To smother only a fraction of the pain and replace it with retribution … sometimes it just didn't seem to cover the cost. And there always was a cost, always some price to pay.  
While one person's memories heal, trauma re-diverted, another falls – an endless cycle of blood and agony and helplessness diluted only by the few who challenge it.

She knew that well enough.  
She had challenged it, ever since the beginning.

Sighing, Commander Shepard let her head fall into her hands, massaging her temples in an acknowledged, vain attempt to let the thoughts go – to forget. Even after two seemingly seamless years of being declared dead, every image was as vivid as it ever was, as though she had never died but instead lived on - having merely fallen asleep for but an instant …

But she knew better than that, knew with the sorrowful wrench of conscience and the glimpses of shadows in the people she used to know.

There were pieces missing now.

The tell tale signs of crew members having gone through two years without her, making their own way as best they could in her memory while she lay on a gurney, a costly investment to a group that had always left a certain sour taste on her tongue.

Hah.

Talk about cost. A soft laugh slipped past cracked lips with a noticeable lack of heart as Shepard leaned back in her chair, scanning the evidence of it in her private quarters, fingertips tracing slow whirls across the terminal, illuminated by the pale blue glow of the enormous aquarium.

Cerberus certainly had a way of making cost seem like nothing, a matter of "moving credits" as Zaeed put it, and he was right. Even now, working with Cerberus left a distinct metallic aftertaste, as though blood and death had seeped into the Normandy and retracted, leaving bleached walls and an unmistakable feel of bodies rendered – for a good cause of course.

She knew it was necessary, working with Cerberus. The council still thought she was delusional and hell – sometimes she was inclined to think so herself but … that only happened on days when the sun they were orbiting around seemed to shine a little less brightly, and the pull of an unhealed muscle signaled the fact that maybe she wasn't up to this, maybe she wanted someone to tell her that it was manageable – that the end was worth it.

At the moment though, she was alone, her only observers being the fish that swam in lazy circles in the expensive glass tank and the picture of Kaiden that sat undisturbed on the desk nearby, next to all the medals and achievements she had earned throughout her career.

Kaiden …

The thought of him sent her into yet another tangent, another branch of sorrow and disappointment as she reached for the frame, tracing the memories that now seemed so clouded, when everything else was so vivid.

She'd thought she could rely on him; trust him to understand as she knew he was able to… She'd thought he would be the one to tell her that it was worth it – that the confliction of pain she dealt and felt was only a matter of the ebb and flow of existence, that what mattered was who we are, not what we do, what we have to do.

He had always been so good with words after all …  
To a certain extent, she had always thought he was a romantic – a cynical romantic, but a romantic nonetheless.  
She didn't think so anymore.

The Kaiden she thought she knew wouldn't have abandoned her like this … wouldn't have left her hanging with brutal words and harsh claims of bitter betrayal and a sense of heavy disappointment that left her feelings in battered shreds.

What did he think she did for those two years?

He acted as though she had simply abandoned and betrayed everyone, left them all to drift away, to fall apart while she gallivanted about the known galaxy while everyone was left to deal with her being gone. Not to mention how he'd thrown everything they'd shared back in her face …

She had been dead for godsake!

Cerberus spent two goddamn years putting her back together and for what? So she could be sent on yet another suicide mission because no one else could do it, no one else could deal with the consequences of losing people, of losing the fight to the Reapers or the Collectors or whoever the hell else it could possibly be because the cost was too high.

Hell, she didn't know how she dealt with it herself. The wound of leaving Williams behind on Virmire still pulsed like an open sore in the recesses of the darkest parts of her – an agony of decision spurned by selfish feelings that now lay bare, raw, and red. She didn't want to think of what Ashley would think of her now.

Slamming a fist into the desk, she suppressed the tears of frustration she would never let go of, the facet of her nature she had sealed off for the good of each mission she went on. What made her so she could do this? What made her different from all the other orphans in the galaxy … the ones that never rose from poverty and loss but instead withered and died beneath the wreckage of life and a bad roll from fate?

She was such a fool for wishing for anything more than what she had.  
Such a fool.

How could she wish for someone to be there for her when she had the power to command assassins and mercenaries alike merely by the strength of her will?  
She had everything most people only dreamt of having, and still the empty hole in her heart seemed to mock everything she'd ever done.

Steeling her resolve, she set Kaiden's picture face down on the terminal, next to all the things she shouldn't have earned, the medals of her valor – the proof of her tenacity and ability. It was just another cost, another cost that etched a mark unto her soul and echoed sweet sorrows of things shared and left to the dust particles that would never gather.

Getting up, Commander Shepard glanced around once more before making the short walk to summon the elevator, leaning against the door as she waited.  
She would go make rounds, talk with the crew, recheck the equipment – something to distract her from these dismal thoughts that continuously eddied in her mind, the thoughts she couldn't share, didn't dare share – not when words were so easy to distort.

The elevator made a low ding to announce its presence before opening and she got on, directing the elevator to the second floor.  
Perhaps a cup of hot tea would help warm her resolve, she'd bought a few interesting types she hadn't tried when she went grocery shopping for Gardener, not to mention the other strange odds and ends he'd requested.

Her thoughts began to ease as she reminisced.

No matter how long she spent around other species, she'd never get over the different foods that aliens ingested. Some looked flat out disgusting (though she really couldn't point fingers when she'd nearly lived on malted army rations at one point in her life), while others just appeared … intriguing, to say the least. She could admit that she was at least willing to give anything the benefit of the doubt though, and so when the store clerk at the produce kiosk had suggested a few popular items not on the list, she had spent the next five minutes going over who was capable of eating what, and what _was_ what.

Shaking her head at the memory, Shepard laughed softly in self amusement at the memory of the store clerk's face as she asked him to simply write it all down himself, unable to wrap her mind around the words he was uttering - she still couldn't make out even half of what the turian had suggested, and if Gardener's raised eyebrow was any inclination when she returned, neither did he.

Arriving at the second floor, the elevator opened with a quiet whoosh and she stepped out, treading silently across the floor to the small inlet of what could be reluctantly referred to as the kitchen, or in Gardener's words his "miracle working station" (though this changed on a day to day basis depending upon what he was cooking, _trying_ to cook, or when you asked him).

Tapping her chin thoughtfully with an index finger, the Commander of the SR2 Normandy considered her options.

There was coffee, that was given – nearly three fourths of the crew consumed at least three cups of it a day, much to Mordin's dismay, who was so far unable to reason with them about how caffeinated beverages really weren't necessary to sustain life.

Instead she bent down to rummage through the cabinets beneath the stove, looking for the tea she had originally planned on making, humming a soft tune under her breath.

"I didn't know you were one for a late night snack, Shepard."

Feigning that she hadn't been surprised _at all _by the turian's rough, deep voice suddenly appearing, the spectre straightened, folding her arms in mock indignation as she turned towards him, catching a glimpse of his mandibles twitching in amusement at what she assumed him to think of finding his Commander rifling the cabinets in the middle of the night, in search for some elusive midnight source of sustenance.

"I could say the same to you, Garrus."

Her azure eyes flickered softly over him – noticing the subtle things like the way his eyes seemed a bit more bruised looking than usual, and how his shirt creased as though he had been tossing restlessly before seeking salvation in being up and about.

"Unless skulking about the mess hall has become something of your new pastime that is...?" A slim eyebrow rose in question before she clucked in mock disapproval, the corner of her mouth twitching.

He laughed softly, moving with his predatory grace to lean against the counter, his own blue orbs tracing her being as she had traced his – two warriors regarding the damages.

"Well seeing as how the Main Battery is only … right over there," He drawled, nodding in the direction of the place he spent most of his time, "It'd be rather difficult to avoid skulking about the mess unless one simple decided not to come out at all."

The turian and former C-Sec officer crossed his arms on the countertop and a larger smile began to creep across his rugged, plated features.

"Wouldn't that make going on missions rather difficult, Commander?"

Shepard found the grin maddening in its smugness.

"Not if I simply left you ass here all the time." She retorted, the twitch of her lips betraying her once again as she turned, crouching to rummage through the random things Gardener had shoved in the cabinet. "At least here I wouldn't have to be rescuing it all the time," she muttered, vaguely hearing Garrus chuckle somewhere behind her.

Grasping a box, she stood up, sighing in exasperation as ten others piled themselves onto the floor at her feet. Her fingers pulsed blue faintly as she levitated them back into the cabinet haphazardly, making note to inform Gardener that she did not approve of his organizational skills.

The silence was comfortable as Shepard set the tea to boil, a fact she didn't overlook. Only with Garrus was silence comfortable, even with the loom of all the things that could go wrong, would go wrong, the turian never once tried to fill the empty space with words of condolences or false hopes. He would never know how much she appreciated that.

Retrieving a mug, she poured herself some tea after it finished brewing, sighing in pleasure as she inhaled the warm, faintly spicy aroma. Wrapping her fingers around her pleasantly warm drink, Shepard regarded Garrus again, noticing the way his brow ridges were creased in thought, the emotion that swirled just beneath the surface – unaware that she had finished her preparations.

She moved away from the stove, and sure enough, his eyes slid up to meet hers at the movement, only trace amounts of the emotion she had seen left in his features. Blue orbs warmed as they regarded her, turian lips quirking.

"Done?"

Shepard scoffed, deliberately inhaling with exuberance and taking a healthy sip, making a point to raise her eyebrows in such a way as to suggest that perhaps his eyes needed checking.

"Alright, alright … dumb question, I know ..."

His expression was rueful, but still amused. He looked away briefly, shifting posture as though there was something on his mind – something he needed to say. Shepard knew Garrus wasn't one to go wandering the ship even if he had things on his mind. For him, re-calibrating the Normandy's guns, doing algorithms, or whatever else he did in the main battery was usually the way he'd deal with the frequent kinks that tended to come up.

She didn't interrupt or prompt him as to what he wanted to say, she simply waited, watching his gaze harden as he resolved something within himself. When his eyes drifted back to hers, they were softer, like the ocean at nightfall when the haze of twilight dappled the water a startling grey-blue.

"Shepard, I …had hoped to find you here ..." He said quietly, considering, voice rougher than its usual pleasant rumble.

"I wanted to talk to you."

* * *

_Please review with any suggestions you might have,  
If not, thank you for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_I apologize if this chapter is rather long winded, but I felt there was a lot that  
Need to be aired on Garrus' side - so that's why the plot hasn't really gone any farther.  
Next chapter things will really get going, it was just getting too long I felt, so I cut it short here.  
In any case, please enjoy.  
Lyrics by Lifehouse._

* * *

_"I miss the years that were erased  
I miss the way the sunshine would light up your face  
I miss all the little things  
I never thought that they'd mean everything to me…"_

Chapter 2.

It'd been six full days since Horizon.

Six days since Garrus had seen Shepard slow down enough to rest against a bulkhead or talk to the crew besides giving Joker coordinates, only exchanging clipped words with the people who gave her pause in passing.

She'd only aimed a curt nod at him once during that time before disappearing into the elevator, brows knitted, corners of her lips drawn together in an expression of engrossment while perusing a small stack of data pads she'd held.

He'd remained there for some time after she'd gone; his own brow ridges knitted in thought.

Her endurance was remarkable, never once did she cease her hectic pace, barking orders and flitting about the ship with her familiar sauntering stalk as though she were about to bear down on existence and center all her will on any possibility of failure – and there were lots of possibilities.

Even so, the former C-Sec officer knew first hand that the spectre had the most unusual ability of being able to bend anyone, anything to her cause if it stood in her way long enough.

In some ways, she was much like a stone thrown into the center of a rapidly running river and ordered to change its course, knowing full well the implication of impossibility yet understanding with calculating clarity, that nature determined the rivers flow, that any attempts to reason with it would merely end with being swept away.

But Shepard, Shepard was methodical, and just like the stone in the center that would slowly amass help – sticks, branches, debris; so the Commander collected soldiers, mercenaries and assassins – eventually turning the tide by making new streams, new options, and new avenues.

Some would say it wasn't natural, but nothing was natural about Commander Shepard except her will to live, and even that was susceptible to question – being pronounced dead and then reappearing two years later had a way of doing that, after all.

It was mind boggling really.

Of all people in the galaxy, she was the _one_ person capable of doing what shouldn't be possible, _again_ simply because she possessed the will of thousands in one, seemingly frail body, and the analytical mind that could put many turian scholars to shame.

The woman could face countless geth with brutal, military efficiency, snipe fatal trajectories when breaking cover for a breadth of time, combat innumerable odds with liquid grace and come out victorious, barely touched, but _this_, this wasn't like that at all, this was wearing on her – and Garrus had to admit, he was worried.

She'd spent days combing the ship, an ocean wave washing up against the hull – testing its strength, feeling for cracks and weak points, her lashes at half mast when she thought no one was looking. She hadn't slept much if at all, in the passing days, if the glimpses of fatigue and frustration he noticed when she swept by were any inclination.

They hadn't made port anywhere since either, but he'd found that most of the crew didn't pay it any mind – speculating that perhaps the Commander was just wound up over the first contact with the Collectors, the elusive, rather repulsive race that had so far successfully eliminated thousands of humans from their colonies for an unknown, most certainly ugly, purpose.

Hell, the thing was …

_No one knew better_.

No one had the privilege of knowing her _before_ Cerberus, _before_ being spaced, _before_ having to start from square one with a brand new crew (bar a few exceptions, himself included). Only he and Joker were privy to how Shepard could be, and Garrus was willing to bet the pilot had his own hunches as to the Commander's ruthless acquisition of intelligence and nonstop attitude lately, but he'd never broach them seriously unless he thought it necessary – Joker knew full well what it was like to touch on a sensitive subject – Vrolics Syndrome notwithstanding.

So where did that leave off?

Ah right, that left him – Garrus, to keep an eye out, and he'd found it easier than he'd imagined. It was as though the two years he'd spent in hell hadn't happened at all when he watched her – everything was so hauntingly familiar.

It was in the way she brushed inquiries off with a shrug and a painless smile, the way she threw herself into tasks with renewed vigor that gave her away. There was no need to ask to be sure, he knew what she was doing intimately; he'd been doing it for the past two years after all – avoiding the … what was that fascinating human saying again? Avoiding the elephant in the kitchen? Stepping over the cat on the carpet?

He'd scoffed inwardly, turning over in his almost too small cot. The answer was irrelevant; he simply knew what it was like – the bypassing of an open sore, the need to tread around it completely for fear of falling apart at the seams.

Thankfully, Garrus recognized the pattern she was going through, he'd seen her go through a similar process two years ago after Gunnery Chief Williams died; emotion was pushed to the background to be later processed at a convenient time or not at all, all while steamrolling continuously forward – the evidence of its toll only rarely visible in eddying azure orbs when she stopped to trace the distant stars out the cold airlocks.

This time though, the turian's need to speak up had driven him to nights of tossing and turning, thoughtful blue eyes staring up at vents and ducts from his cot in the main battery, (he found sleeper pods entirely uncomfortable due to his size), deciding whether to approach the complexity that was the Commander about it - replaying the days in his mind.

After the attack on the colony, the Commander had thrown herself into assisting Mordin with bringing the dead collector bodies onboard for study, oozing, reeking flesh and all, (much to the dismay of the cleanup crew that had to salvage as much bodily refuse per Mordin's explicit orders) – spending the time when she and the salarian weren't marveling over the intricacies by cleaning armor and weapons and making visits to Anderson – giving him the information they had so far surmised that the council refused to heed.

He didn't even want to get started on _that_.  
It was pathetic really, plain, goddamn bureaucratic crap.

In truth, the council's decision (or lack of one) on whether to spread the knowledge of an impending galactic genocide wasn't really any of Garrus' concern, in fact, the way they so gracelessly backslid on the reaper threat was understandable to some very, _very_ small degree had they not pissed on Shepard's grave afterwards.

Now that _was_ his concern

It was ineffable how they disillusioned everything the Commander (who'd pulled their ungrateful asses out of the fire), stood for, fought for, suffered through – instead turning her into some loon (though he still didn't know exactly what that meant) duped by Saren and tweaked a few too many times by Cerberus. After all she'd done for them, after all she'd done for galactic civilizations everywhere; all they could say was that maybe the only woman doing something to save the galaxy was crazy with a capital C.

Just thinking about it got a rise out of him, but back when it had really mattered, when it was _fresh, _he hadn't found the drive to do anything about it - bureaucratic shit was even more unappealing when the person slandered was dead, _spaced_ dead.

It still gave him unexpected chills when he thought about it.

When he'd heard she'd died … that there was no coming back, no emerging from the rubble with a grin and a limp, he'd felt as though he'd been spaced along with her.

The Normandy was disintegrated, gone, space toast per say (he'd only learned what toast was recently when Shepard had alarmed him by nearly lighting the place on fire to get what wound down to cooked bread), and the crew had dissipated along with it.

No one mistook why.

No one tried to regroup on another ship and continue on.  
They had all been apart of Shepard's crew, _hers_, and without her, they were nothing, nothing but jagged puzzle pieces and stunned revelations. And so, each one of them went their separate ways, carrying with them little pieces of laughter and close calls, arguments and fond memories - shadows that kept them avoiding eye contact as they left.

He'd tried to go back to C-Sec, but having spent so long under a spectre and being accustomed to doing things the right way, (even if it went against the law or bypassed necessary paperwork), he'd found, unsurprisingly, that he didn't fit and had left shortly afterward. He'd even considered applying for spectre status, but had come to the glum conclusion that the mantle would only infringe on his already questionable mental stability, the conscience that focused solely on her - _the lack of her_.

And so, his presence of mind had brought him to the "piss hole," as Miranda had so eloquently put it, knowing there was no red tape to get in the way of the possibility that maybe there was some good to be scrounged out on Omega, even though no one would have ever combined the words "good" and "Omega" in the same sentence.

He'd settled in easily enough, and kicking batarian and vorcha ass hadn't seemed so bad at first – and it hadn't. By cleaning the slums, he felt as though he were following in the Commander's footsteps, footsteps erased by an ocean's swell, (or in this case remnants of Collector induced ash) but… footsteps nonetheless.

He'd been a fool.

In an effort to regain what he'd lost, Garrus had assembled a team, a group he recruited simply by replicating Shepard's tactics - he showed people that he got things done, sabotaged some drug trains, shot a few bad guys and hey - in return, he gained respect and the title "Archangel." Recruits had begun materializing out of the dark, grey streets to join his cause, and before he knew it (though days, and months seemed to blur together) he'd been outfitted with a well working squad.

For awhile, it had helped, had eased him with familiar goings-on, of making a difference no matter how small – it had helped him forget until it had all come shattering down around him in bloodstains and gun shots. That day had been a harsh realization that nothing would ever amount to Shepard; that _he_ could not amount to anything close to her. If he'd been her… surely he would have seen Sidonis' betrayal coming, surely …

But that's not why he was here, no, the council could go dance on a krogan burial ground for all he cared, and Sidonis, well... he had a bullet with his name on it. He was here, on the new Normandy, because of her, because she had asked him to rejoin her team, to rejoin _her. _

The startling illusion of her cutting her way through gun smoke, tendrils of hair clinging to her porcelain features, eyes alight from adrenaline and harsh military efficiency, still smote him - _hard_.

After he'd gotten over the fact that she wasn't some final, hopeful delusion on Omega, some part of him had exhaled a shaky breath for what felt like the first time in two years, muscles relaxing under her command, committing himself to follow her without her even needing to open her mouth, that intriguing set of lips and white teeth.

He'd gotten sloppy after that, mind working in weary, feverish circles, telling him how much he wanted to embrace her, to finally just, _let go_ for the first time in weeks, or was it months? He'd just been so _tired_, and seeing her again had made the gravity of all he'd been keeping at bay seep into his bones – her face eddying in the darkness as he'd sunk into unconsciousness after being unceremoniously shot down.

It was her voice that brought him back, the panic he could still hear when he closed his eyes, the scent of fear that had washed over her when she'd rolled him over – seamlessly amazing him by her touch even as he'd lain on the closest thing to a deathbed he'd ever been on.

It was just who she was, she was the sort of person whose complexity stunned you in a way that only came from someone who could laugh easily among the crew at dinner, cracking jokes, and snipe krogan and melee husks by morning - the fascinating swirl of death, sorrow, and life in azure irises that could wake him from his nightmares, his breath coming in harsh pants, droplets of cold sweat trickling over hot skin.

He could've blinked and convinced himself no time had elapsed - when he was here, standing across from her, it was as though two years hadn't passed at all. Nothing noticeable had changed, she still had the same lake shore blue eyes, the silken, military styled hair and lean frame, and when she noticed him watching, a soft smile flickered across her lips whenever he happened to look her way (which was rather often he'd admit), worried she'd vanish into the haze of those two years spent in darkness.

She'd been making tea the whole time he thought about this, about why he was here and the urge to broach the subject that had spurred him unto this state – the person that had set change into motion when nothing had ever been able to change Shepard before - Lieutenant Alenko.

Garrus had always been somewhat jealous of their close bond but had tucked those sentiments away because it was completely understandable – he couldn't have blamed the Lieutenant for wanting after Shepard anymore than he could have told him to live without breathing – it was just one of those things.

Out of curiosity, he had thought about what it would be like to be involved with Shepard himself, but had turned it down with haste - he was turian after all, and he'd never had a thing for humans – they were too soft and fleshy, too easy to break. Not to mention the whole intimate thing…

He remembered how his brow ridges had drawn together, mandibles twitching in exasperation as he'd thought on it, his lapse resulting in a fumbled omnitool command that had then gone and short circuited the old Mako's shield generators, frying the panels to the point where he'd have to start all over. Swearing profusely, he'd shaken the tingle of electricity from his talons – finding himself irritated by Wrex who had chuckled his dark, sarcastic laughter from across the hangar before aiming a few, joking jabs at turian anatomy and their inability to "fix" things, before he'd lumbered over and given him a hand.

He'd never thought about it again.

Now though, now he realized he'd put the thought away so quickly because it mattered to him, _really_ mattered. The two years of her absence had made him uncomfortably aware of just how much she'd meant to him, not just as a Commander, and a good one at that, but as a _friend.  
_

Over the years, he'd come to regret not spending as much time with her as he'd have liked, but he'd told himself that she was better off with Alenko anyway. After all, it was nearly impossible to miss the lingered touches, the way Kaiden's eyes would follow her on a mission, the simple way they interacted...

Garrus had always been able to scent the admiration and intrigue at a distance, feeling the flutter of envy when he made her laugh; instead forcing himself to feel happy for her, content that she had someone who cared, someone who _really_ cared.

Horizon had changed all of that though, and Alenko would regret it one day.

Regardless, the lieutenant was the reason for this unplanned, midnight rendezvous - Garrus across the counter, Shepard busy making some human drink, irises becoming liquid warmth for the first time in six days as they exchanged banter - he wanted to let her know that Alenko was a fool for letting her go.

So here he was, about to tell her something she most likely didn't want to hear at the potential cost of the quiet understanding they had of one another.

He'd do it for her, at the cost of himself. He'd do it because _she'd_ brought him back, _she_ had the quads to drag his ass out of the slums of Omega, out of what would have been the resting place of his broken body, and damn if he wouldn't try to drag her from her brutal reveries – she deserved that much.

Blue eyes met blue, each tracing memories and the sorrows of lost time, steam curling between them from her mug as he softened, resigned.

_"I wanted to talk to you."  
_

He began.

* * *

_If you catch any mistakes, feel free to inform me.  
After reading things so many times, one tends to miss little things.  
~_


End file.
